The Butcher Beyond Read online

Featherington Gore shot Woodend a look of intense dislike. ‘I wouldn’t put it in quite those terms,’ he said, ‘but I have certainly met the Caudillo on several occasions.’

  You mean you’ve stood in a reception line while he’s strode past you, Woodend translated.

  ‘I take it you’ve seen the body,’ he said aloud.

  Featherington Gore wrinkled his nose in distaste. ‘Yes, I performed my official duty in that regard,’ he said. ‘I can’t say I was very impressed with his suit. Admittedly, it looked new – but the quality was shocking. Surely he could have made a little effort.’

  ‘Maybe if he’d known in advance that he was goin’ to snuff it, he’d have been a little more careful about what he wore,’ Woodend suggested.

  ‘At any rate, it is a complication without which I could well have done,’ Featherington Gore said, ignoring – or misunderstanding – the Chief Inspector’s comment. ‘We cannot even release the body, since – thanks to the dead man’s deviousness – we have no idea to whom it should be released. And, inevitably, by dying in that manner, he has cast the British community here in a very bad light.’

  ‘Aye, he certainly should have taken that into consideration before he decided to get himself killed,’ Woodend agreed.

  Featherington Gore looked puzzled. ‘I’m afraid I’m not following you, old chap.’

  ‘You don’t seem to have given much thought to the implications of the murder.’

  ‘What implications?’

  ‘Well, for a start, if he was murdered, then somebody must have murdered him.’

  ‘Oh, I see what you mean,’ Featherington Gore said. ‘From Her Majesty’s Government’s point of view, the most convenient outcome would be if it was discovered that he was killed during the course of a robbery.’

  ‘Yes, I can see how that might be convenient. But in my experience, robbers an’ their victims don’t usually have long, intense discussions before they come to blows,’ Woodend pointed out.

  Featherington Gore frowned. ‘You’re sure that’s what you heard from your room?’

  ‘I’m sure.’

  ‘It couldn’t have been a case of Holloway saying, “Are you trying to steal my wallet?” and the other man answering – in Spanish, of course – “Don’t come any nearer, Englishman, or I’ll kill you”?’

  ‘No,’ Woodend said heavily. ‘It couldn’t have been that way at all.’

  ‘Well, if that’s the line you intend to adhere to …’

  ‘It is.’

  ‘You leave no interpretation open other than that Holloway knew his killer,’ Featherington Gore said, miffed.

  ‘Brilliant!’ Woodend said. ‘I wish I’d thought of that.’

  ‘Of course, that doesn’t rule out the possibility that his murderer could be a Spanish criminal. We already have the evidence of his passport and his poor taste in suits to suggest that Mr Holloway did not naturally mix with the better elements of society.’

  ‘Then again, his murderer could just as easily turn out to be English.’

  Featherington Gore shuddered. ‘I sincerely hope that does not, in fact, turn out to be the case.’

  ‘Have you been in touch with the Ambassador about this inconvenient little murder?’

  ‘Indeed I have. I sent a telegram to His Excellency this morning. No doubt he will reply with instructions as soon as he is able.’

  ‘An’ in the meantime?’

  ‘In the meantime, there is very little we can do here on the ground, as it were. As I understand it, the investigation is being led by Captain López, who is a very sound chap – for a Spaniard. As far as you’re concerned personally, having delivered your report to me, you now have my permission to continue with the rest of your little holiday.’

  ‘I wonder if you could help me,’ Woodend said.

  The Consul did not seem very keen on the possibility. ‘In what way?’ he asked suspiciously.

  ‘My missus isn’t feelin’ very well. I’m sure it’s nothin’ serious, but I’d be happier in my own mind if you could recommend a good doctor – preferably one who speaks English – to give her the once-over.’

  ‘The “once-over”,’ Featherington Gore repeated, as if the term were completely alien to him. ‘I’m not sure I can be of much assistance there. If I require a medical examination, I go to Madrid to see Don Carlos Muñoz, who is a very eminent physician, with an international reputation. However –’ he paused for a moment – ‘I’m sure there must be competent doctors in this town, and no doubt my secretary – who has probably had reason to consult one herself – will be able to advise you on which to visit.’

  Featherington Gore stood up and held out his hand across the desk. Clearly, he considered the interview to be over.

  Woodend rose to his feet, too. ‘If there’s anythin’ else—’ he began.

  ‘Yes, yes,’ Featherington Gore interrupted impatiently. ‘If there is anything else, I will certainly summon you.’

  ‘Aye, leave a blue lantern in your bedroom window, an’ I’ll be there before you know it,’ Woodend said.

  And having delivered the best parting shot he could think of at that moment, he headed for the door.

  He was already turning the handle when Featherington Gore said, ‘Er … Mr Woodend?’

  Woodend turned. ‘Yes?’

  ‘Your passport says that you’re a Chief Inspector. Is it accurate?’

  ‘What, are you suggestin’ I’m travellin’ on fake papers as well?’

  ‘No, no,’ Featherington Gore hastened to assure him. ‘I’m sure the passport is genuine. I merely wondered if the rank listed was correct.’

  ‘Ah, you’re wonderin’ if I’ve been promoted since the passport was issued,’ Woodend said.

  But from the expression on his face, that was clearly not what Featherington Gore had been wondering at all.

  ‘It’s just that Chief Inspector is a quite senior post,’ he said. ‘And you don’t seem to … don’t seem to …’

  ‘Dress the part?’ Woodend suggested helpfully.

  ‘Yes, I suppose that is what I mean.’

  ‘Well then, at least me an’ the victim have got somethin’ in common – even if it’s only poor taste in clothes,’ Woodend said.

  The doctor’s office was located on one of the side streets which led off the church square. The brass plaque on the door looked reassuringly professional, but Woodend still had his doubts.

  ‘I’d be much happier if you’d let me come in with you, lass,’ he said to his wife.

  Joan sighed. ‘If the doctor speaks reasonable English, I won’t need you,’ she said.

  ‘An’ what if he doesn’t?’

  ‘If he doesn’t, you’d be no more use at makin’ him understand what’s wrong with me than I would.’

  ‘I know that, but—’

  ‘When men go to the doctor’s, they take their wives along with them to baby them,’ Joan said. ‘We don’t mind that. It’s like all the other trials and tribulations that go with the marriage licence – just somethin’ we have to put up with! But when we’re not feelin’ well ourselves, we’ve got enough on our minds without lookin’ after you an’ all.’

  Woodend chuckled, then was serious again. ‘You’re sure?’

  ‘I’m sure. Go an’ solve this murder, Charlie – that’s the sort of thing you’re good at.’

  Had he been in England, he’d have jumped at the suggestion – for though he would never have admitted it, going to the local police and offering his services was his idea of a perfect holiday. But this wasn’t England. It wasn’t even close. He had no idea how police officers in Spain went about their duties – and if they were all like Captain López, he suspected that he didn’t really want to find out.

  ‘Maybe I’ll just wander over to the square, an’ have a drink,’ he said tentatively.

  ‘You do that,’ Joan agreed, ringing the bell. ‘An’ when I’ve finished with the doctor, I’ll come an’ find you.’

  The door was opened by a
girl in a maid’s uniform. ‘Señora VoooDend?’ she asked uncertainly.

  ‘That’s right,’ Joan agreed.

  ‘Please to follow me.’

  ‘I really don’t mind comin’ in with you, love,’ Woodend said, as his wife took a step over the threshold.

  Joan turned slightly. ‘Oh, bugger off, Charlie!’ she said – and then she laughed to take the edge off her words.

  But it wasn’t like Joan to swear under any circumstances, Woodend thought worriedly. It wasn’t like her at all. Still, she was inside now, the door was closing, and there was nothing more he could do for the moment.

  As he walked towards the square, he realized that he was being followed. One of López’s men? Probably! Well, he should at least let the bugger know he’d been spotted.

  He came to a halt, and turned round. But it was not a Spanish policeman – either in plain clothes or in uniform – who was on his tail. It was an ex-policeman.

  ‘Mr Ruiz!’ he said. ‘What an unexpected pleasure.’

  Seven

  Paco Ruiz’s limp seemed more pronounced that morning, Woodend thought, as the Spaniard led him across the square to a bar which was just clearing away the evidence of workers’ breakfasts and preparing itself for the first wave of assaults from the tourist trade.

  ‘It’s worse some days than others,’ Ruiz said, as they sat down at one of the tables.

  ‘What is?’

  ‘My leg. There are times when it feels almost as strong as it did when I was a young man of twenty, but there are also times when I think I’m about to lose the use of it for ever.’

  ‘How did you know I was thinkin’ about your leg, when you were walkin’ in front of me?’ Woodend wondered.

  ‘Only a fool pretends that his infirmity is not noticed by others. It is gout, you understand.’

  ‘Is that right?’ Woodend asked flatly.

  Paco Ruiz smiled. ‘You do not believe me, of course.’

  Woodend returned the smile. ‘From the way you walk, I’d be prepared to bet you’re sufferin’ from an old injury, rather than a creepin’ disease. Of course, I could be wrong.’

  ‘But you don’t think you are?’

  ‘No, I don’t.’

  ‘Then why have you not asked me how I acquired my limp?’

  ‘Because it’s none of my business.’

  Ruiz’s smile broadened. ‘You would still like to know, though, wouldn’t you?’

  ‘I’m itchin’ to know,’ Woodend agreed. ‘But I imagine that if you ever get to the point where you want to talk about it, you’ll need absolutely no promptin’ from me.’

  The waiter arrived.

  ‘Beer, Mr Woodend?’ Paco Ruiz asked. ‘Or is it still too early in the morning for you?’

  ‘I’m on holiday,’ Woodend said. ‘An’ when I’m on holiday, there’s no such thing as too early.’

  Their discussion so far had not really been about Paco Ruiz’s leg at all, Woodend thought. It had been more in the nature of verbal sparring – a testing process. Each of them had been trying to establish whether he could trust the other man – and whether the other man could trust him. And Woodend had decided that he could trust Ruiz. Not only that, but he found himself rapidly developing a tremendous liking for the man.

  The beers arrived. They both took a sip.

  ‘I have discovered something which you may find intriguing from a professional viewpoint,’ Ruiz said.

  ‘Professional viewpoint?’ Woodend repeated – sounding intrigued.

  ‘Yet I am not sure I should involve you,’ Ruiz confessed.

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘What do you know of Spain? You perhaps read an article in your newspapers about a demonstration which has been broken up by the police, and you imagine it to be like one handled by the British authorities. I can assure you that it is not. People might sometimes get injured in a British demonstration, but here heads are broken on a regular basis.’

  ‘Maybe you’re right, but even so—’

  ‘What do you see of Spain – even looking at it with the trained eye of a detective? You see the people in the shops and bars, who are happy to have your custom and who treat you with traditional Spanish courtesy and hospitality. True, you also see policemen with guns, but you tell yourself that this is only the Continental way of doing things, and that it is nothing to worry about. But as I hinted previously, there is a darker side to my country.’

  ‘I met a piece of the darker side after we parted last night,’ Woodend said. ‘His name was Captain López.’

  Paco Ruiz shook his head. ‘You have just made a mistake which is commonly made by people who do not know this country.’

  ‘López isn’t part of the darker side?’

  ‘He’s a pawn. Nothing! He is the man who handles the bloody meat. But to understand Spain fully, you must see further than the assistant at the front of the shop. You must seek out the butcher beyond.’

  ‘Aren’t you bein’ a little melodramatic?’ Woodend wondered. ‘I know some terrible things were done in the Civil War, but—’

  ‘You think you know about those times, but, in truth, you have no idea,’ Paco Ruiz interrupted.

  ‘Don’t I?’

  ‘No idea at all. What kinds of terrible things do you think were done?’

  ‘Well,’ Woodend began, already starting to feel that he was on shaky ground, ‘I know that a lot of civilians were killed during the war.’

  ‘Only during the war?’

  ‘I would assume so.’

  ‘Then you would assume wrongly. The killing did not stop when the Nationalists won. In the summer after the war ended, tens of thousands were executed for no other crime than being on the losing side. In Madrid alone, up to two hundred and fifty people a day were led before the firing squad. After a while even Franco’s strongest supporters grew sickened by all the bloodletting, and asked him to show a little mercy.’

  ‘An’ did he?’

  ‘He made what he probably considered a concession. He said only eighty percent of those brought before the military tribunals must be found guilty. That was his definition of even-handed justice. And this man, with so much blood on his hands, still controls this country.’

  ‘But it can’t be anything like as bad as it was, can it?’ Woodend asked.

  ‘He no longer spills as much blood, but his grip is tighter than ever,’ Ruiz said. ‘No one knows how many people are in prison. You will not read any figures in the press – as you might do in your own country – because the press is not free.’ He paused to light up a black cigarette. ‘Why do you think all foreign films are dubbed into Spanish, instead of merely having subtitles?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Because some of the audience may understand English.’

  ‘So what?’

  ‘The censor does not want their minds polluted by foreign ideas. If a woman is a man’s mistress in an American film, she will become his niece in the Spanish version. Any scenes in which they make physical contact will simply be cut, in order to maintain that fiction. It will make a nonsense of the movie, of course, but at least it will keep our people pure.’

  ‘You’re jokin’!’ Woodend said.

  ‘I wish I were,’ Ruiz told him. ‘Even language is suppressed. The Basques and Catalans have their own languages, but they are not allowed to use them. Or to christen their children with Basque or Catalan names – the names they give them must be Spanish.’

  ‘That’s incredible!’

  ‘It affects football, too. Real Madrid is the regime’s favourite team. Barcelona is, for many, a symbol of Catalan nationalism. Once, when they were playing each other, the Guardia Civil visited the Barcelona team’s dressing room, and told the goalkeeper that if he played well, his brother, who was in prison for his political activities, would be made to suffer.’

  ‘Why are you tellin’ me all this?’ Woodend asked.

  ‘Because a man should never enter a darkened room without at least having some idea
of what to expect in there. If you and I are to conduct an investigation – even an unofficial one – I would rather you started out with a true picture of the Spain in which we live.’

  ‘Are we goin’ to conduct an investigation?’ Woodend asked.

  ‘That is entirely up to you, Señor Woodend. I shall certainly try to find out more, if I can.’

  ‘About what, exactly?’

  ‘The American who we saw contact Holloway is called Mitchell – or, at least, that is what it says on his passport. Holloway was not the only man he saw last night, either. Later – though before Holloway was killed – he had a meeting in a quiet bar with a whole group of men.’

  ‘I don’t see that’s particularly significant.’

  ‘Then consider this. All the men were roughly the same age as Holloway and Mitchell.’

  ‘A feller’s mates do tend to be the same age as he is.’

  ‘And though the barman is convinced that they were all foreigners, they were talking to each other in Spanish.’

  ‘Now that is interestin’,’ Woodend agreed. ‘Was our friend Holloway at this meetin’?’

  ‘What makes you ask?’

  ‘Because it strikes me that the piece of paper Mitchell gave him could have had directions on it.’

  ‘That is true. And perhaps he was there. One of the men at the table may have been bald, but he was wearing a hat, and so the barman is not sure.’

  ‘So do you think that one – or all – of these men was involved in Holloway’s death?’

  ‘Not necessarily. But I certainly think Holloway’s death is connected with the reason they are all here.’

  Woodend nodded, then offered Ruiz a Capstan Full Strength. The Spaniard shook his head and reached for his own packet of black cigarettes.

  ‘Before we go any further with this, I’d like to know what your interest in the case is,’ Woodend said.

  Ruiz took a long, reflective drag on his Celtas. ‘It is a long time since I have investigated a real crime. I miss it. Besides …’

  ‘Besides what?’

  ‘Tourism has become very important to the Spanish economy. Four years ago, we had four million visitors. This year, we are expecting fourteen million. The death of a holidaymaker – even if he were only pretending to be on holiday – could damage the tourist trade.’